


Gallery

by Rynn336



Series: Call Me Hopeless, But Not Romantic [1]
Category: Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: First Meetings, Hope's Peak, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-19 23:31:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7381948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rynn336/pseuds/Rynn336
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Art has never meant anything to Nagito, and sometimes he'd rather let it burn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gallery

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! 
> 
> Honestly, I have no idea how many people will really be reading this, because I am far from being even close to a good writer, but fuck it, right? Haha! I have fanfiction I've written, I might as well post it!
> 
> I've written one Dangan Ronpa fic so far, and I didn't plan for anything to come of it, but the I had an idea to do a series. It's going to be more or less a collection of drabbles, but I guess it does lead to something eventually. I also wanted to do a song fic, and after my previous Dangan Ronpa fanfiction (which is gonna be part two in the series, so I don't know if previous is the right way to say it), I thought the song "Call Me Hopeless, But Not Romantic" by Mayday Parade would fit perfectly. So this is my shitty attempt at life! Hooray!
> 
> God, I am so awkward. I'll shut up now, at least until the end of this.

_I can’t believe that so much time was spent on my own_

_Just trying to figure it out all alone_

_Don’t show emotion, let this go._

 

When they first met, nothing changed. Nagito had heard all of the stories about couples that had seen each other for the first time and everything had just…clicked. Like everything made sense. Hajime was just another person, a Reserve Course student no less, and they irritated each other to no end. Hajime always tied his favorite tie too loose, and Nagito couldn’t stand it, stopping him before he left for breakfast and pulling the knot closer to Hajime’s neck until he started choking. Whenever Nagito would say “hope” or “stepping stone” or “worthless,” Hajime’s fists would clench around whatever they were holding, and Nagito just waited gleefully and excitedly for the day Hajime would finally just crack and punch him in the face.

“Stalker,” “Reserve,” “Crazy,” “Clueless,” “Asshole,” “Dipshit”—they hurled names at each other across the canyon between their beds, darts at multifaceted dartboards. Nowadays, Hajime says that it was like looking at Nagito through a kaleidoscope; every second the scope would be turned just a little bit, sometimes more than others, and he used to struggle to understand and adjust to the new image he was forced to deal with.

Hajime was not a kaleidoscope. He was the same every day, every hour, every minute, every second, and Nagito found himself as bored with the stupid Reserve as he was with art galleries. He could walk in circles around the halls, and the paintings would hold no more meaning for him than they did the first time. No one changed out the paintings or added new ones. He just stared and stared until he would no longer be surprised if the paintings caught fire.

Predictable.

Banal.

Forgettable.

 

“Nagito!” Hajime calls now, smiling as he hurries up to him in the crowded hallway. Students flood toward the entrance hall around them, a veritable stampede of adrenalized Ultimates and relieved Reserves. “You ready?”

Nagito nods, lifting one of his backpack straps. “Yeah.”

Hajime pauses for a moment. “You are spending break with us, right?” he asks suddenly, his teeth latching on to the inside of his cheek nervously. “I just realized I forgot to check with you before now.”

Nagito nods again. “Yeah, of course. I don’t really have anywhere else to go, unless my mom wants to buy me a several-hundred-dollar plane ticket to have me home for a week before she has to spend several hundred more dollars to get me back here.”

Hajime brightens. “Great! Come on, then.”

Nagito likes how Hajime never tries to respond to anything he doesn’t know how to respond to. It also pisses him off, especially when he actually says something meaningful that leaves Hajime clueless.

 

They’d soured the air between them for months before Hajime finally called truce. Nagito would’ve been lying if he’d said he wasn’t relieved. They both worked their asses off – in their own ways – and the stress of trying to dodge around each other (or piss each other off in any way possible) in their tiny little two-bed dorm room was giving them both ulcers. As long as Nagito stopped intentionally antagonizing Hajime, Hajime would do better at all the things Nagito constantly pestered him about. Plus, they would both stop trying to pretend the other didn’t exist when they were in their room. Just to make him angry, Nagito told him he’d think about it, and kept him on edge for a week before finally agreeing. He wasn’t sure why he did it. He wasn’t, and isn’t, sure why he does most things.

But the increased exposure to Hajime’s mediocrity didn’t make him feel any better, much to his dismay. He found himself scuffing the art gallery’s floors with black-soled shoes, fiddling in his pocket for his lighter because he just couldn’t wait for the paintings to combust in the heat of his glare. He flung torches at the walls and slashed through the bright blues and somber purples with knives, plaster strewn across the floor and light bulbs bursting in his wake as he tore through the halls, screaming just to see if he could make the smoky air vibrate, until he realized with a jolt that he didn’t want the paintings to burn. That they finally, finally held meaning.

 

Nagito watches Hajime’s hands on the steering wheel of his old Nissan. He always sticks his right thumb out along the hard plastic of the wheel, his left hand a perfect fist. Asymmetry. Imperfection. His fingers are long and narrow and bony, and he has a giant callused bump on his right middle finger from where his pencils and pens have dug into the knuckle far too many times.

“You’re worried about something,” Nagito remarks.

“Huh?” Hajime frowns, his gaze fixed on something far ahead.

“Something’s bothering you. You’re squinting. And you’re not staying in the center of your lane.”

Hajime blinks, forcibly relaxing his forehead and reaching up with one thumb to rub away the furrow between his eyebrows. The deviant thumb. The right one. He stares hard at the asphalt through the windshield. “Are you asking me what’s wrong, or are you just telling me how I feel?”

If one of their other friends had asked, he would have laughed it off. “Sorry! Just lost in thought.” Or, “Oh, no, I’m fine! Really.”

Nagito wonders what that says about their relationship. He shrugs.

They fall silent.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi again! Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you thought in the comments! I'd love to know what I did well, and what you thought I could've done better. Any feedback is appreciated! Thanks!


End file.
